Uprising
by Smegerama
Summary: Discontinued - The story of a two-tailed fox with a broken leg, an empty cola bottle and a hundred tons of trashed ship-to-surface vessel.
1. Midnight on the Typhoon

**Uprising**

_Author's Note: As for setting, imagine this takes place in the middle of the Metarex Saga of Sonic X, except without Chris._

**Chapter 1**

**Midnight on the Typhoon**

"Queen to bishop three," chirped an electronic voice. "Bishop takes queen, knight takes bishop."

"Mate," said Tails, grinning. This was the tenth or eleventh game he had won straight against Knuckles, who had insisted that he teach him how to play chess on the hologram board. The only problem with this was that Tails had the tendency to zap anyone he was playing against in chess without noticing.

Knuckles gaped at his humiliating defeat. Tails clearly knew what he was doing. Knuckles' first move had been a pawn sacrifice to let his other pieces move. That had been the peak of his skill. After that, he got so confident that he was winning he had made one fatal mistake after another until he could only make one move, and as soon as he did so Tails made a few movements on the touch pad and the holographic pieces murdered what was left of Knuckles' already damaged ego.

He stared for a moment, and his left eyelid jerked involuntarily. "I resign," he said, and slouched in the booth. Defeated. Again. By someone half his age.

"Resignation recorded," said the chess board. It spat out some ticker-tape, an updated version of a graph that displayed two lines: a yellow one (for Tails) and a red one (for Knuckles) which had gone their separate directions shortly after the chess training began.

"Heh heh. Beatcha' again, Knuckles," said Tails, rather pointlessly.

Knuckles sat up. "What do I care? It's not like this game has any meaning!"

"I think you have something of mine?" Tails extended his hand towards Knuckles.

"You set me up! You rigged the chess board!"

Tails kept his hand out, patiently waiting. "I think you have something of mine?" he repeated, and coughed several times.

Knuckles sighed, and handed over a quarter. "It's enough I have to have someone your age show me

how to play, but why to we have to bet on the winner?"

Tails tried to fake a shocked expression. "Are to insinuating that I'm doing this for monetary gain? I am insulted!"

"But I never win! Do you think you're impressing me by besting me at a game I've never played before?"

"No, I'm just trying to show you how to play."

"No, you just want the stupid quarter."

"There you are, again saying I do it for the money!"

"Tails, a quarter is next to worthless."

"No, Knuckles, a penny is next to worthless. With a few quarters I could get something at almost any vending machine. Even some of the cheaper lottery ticket ones."

"I still don't see why you go to all the trouble to get twenty-five freaking cents."

"If it's so worthless then why are you crying?"

"It was _mine_!"

"Hoarding is a mental illness."

"What the hell is wrong with you? Are you _trying_ to make me murderously angry? Because I think congratulations are in order!"

"Look, I'll give you the quarter back if you really want it."

"No, no, just keep it..." Knuckles muttered, walking out of the room. "...ya' stupid fox," he added under his breath.

Tails flipped the quarter and caught it in his hand. "Best twenty-five cents I ever made." He turned off the chess board and walked out into the corridor. Only the auxiliary lights were on, shrouding the ship in a very dim blue. It was night (or what they would have considered night, being in space) on board the _Blue Typhoon_, and everyone had retreated to their quarters. Except for Knuckles, who had woken Tails up around 5:00 AM on the basis that chess builds strategy skills and is imperative to the mission.

Knuckles had now stormed off, and Tails was fully awake. He was now heading down to a lounge area. When he arrived there he approached the vending machine.

"**Hello. I am a Diet Cork dispenser,**" it said about as loudly as possible. "**What drink would you like? There is a selection chart on my front, and if you are blind, please press the button labeled 'READ' and I shall****—**"

Tails hit the "fast-foward" button until the machine finished jabbering. "Yeah, just an eight-ounce Diet Cork for me," he ordered.

"**I also have Diet Cork Dark,**" said the dispenser.

"What's that?" As soon as he finished speaking, Tails regretted what he had said. A small LCD screen descended from the top of the dispensing unit and a "megaloud" commercial began playing over the P.A. system.

"Do you like Cork?" asked a rather buffed-up hedgehog.

"No," said Tails.

"So do I! How about Diet Cork?" the hedgehog questioned.

"Well, yes," said Tails. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here."

"Nope, me neither!" the commercial beamed, the contradiction looking almost intentional.

"Off!" Tails commanded the machine.

"But what if Diet Cork was mixed with a special ingredient?"

"OFF!" Tails yelled.

"Something that would make it not so bland!"

"OFF! OFF! OFF!"

"Something so delicious it was outlawed on six planets!"

"Oh, turn this frickin' thing off!"

"That's right! We're talking about j-j-z-r-q-a-a-a-j-j-j-j-j-j**—"** It glitched as Tails tore the video screen off and slammed it on the dispenser until it shut down the audio.

"**Diet Cork then?**" the machine asked.

"Yes," said Tails.

"**Eight fluid ounces?**"

"Yes."

"**No Dark or anything like that?**"

"Right." Tails deposited the quarter and received his drink. He then went to the side of the machine and typed in six digits on a number pad. A small slot opened below and seventeen quarters fell out. Tails counted them, and went to the hot dog dispenser next door.

"Hot dog," he said.

"**What would you like with it?**" the machine asked.

"Nothing. I've been caused enough grief already and am incidentally capable of holding a bottle of mustard and squeezing it."

"**Mustard then. What brand?**"

"Just give me the stinkin' hot dog."

It displayed the price $0.50 on the digital readout. "**Fifty cents,**" it read aloud, and then repeated in six other forms of currency. Two quarters clanked down the slot. The machine dispensed a plain hot dog without a bun. Tails kicked it.

He returned to his room with his small snack, having aged six years in five minutes. He ripped the minibar door open and grasped a bottle of mustard and a small packet of "Medium" hot sauce. He also grabbed a loaf of potato bread from the pantry and sat down at his desk to eat. He put a small amount of mustard and hot sauce on the hot dog. He took a bite. Rather bland.

He reopened the fridge and grabbed six packets of "Extra Hot" hot sauce. He put five packets on the rest of the hot dog and slurped the sixth into his mouth with the first bite. Very tangy. Then a feeling all too common became apparent. A few beads of sweat formed on Tails' forehead. Then his eyes bugged out, became bloodshot and he gagged, spitting the chunks of chewed hot dog across the room where they splattered on the wall. Tails fell to the ground, got up, jerked open the minibar and grabbed the closest thing he could find to milk: CoolWhip. It didn't kill the spiciness, and if anybody had seen him spraying it into his mouth by the pound they would've considered him a bit peculiar.

In desperation he dug deeper into the fridge and discovered a can of heavy whipping cream. It was sealed. He didn't remember having it, but he didn't care. He ran over to the counter and started the electric can opener. It didn't work; it was unplugged. Tails couldn't speak at this point and was shaking wildly, but if he could speak he would've provided a long string of meaningless scatting. He searched for the cord. It was tangled with the cords of several other appliances he rarely used. Tails started convulsing and slammed the can on the counter several times.

BANG.

It was denting.

BANG.

Almost there.

BANG.

The seal broke and he triumphantly slurped it. Oh dear. It had expired two years ago.

GASP.

THUMP.


	2. Medical Report

_Author's Note: I had actually written this chapter a while ago but never posted it. After getting a review for the first time in a while, I had some motivation to rewrite a bit of this chapter and finally post it. I'll try to write chapter three some time soon.  
_

**Chapter 2**

**Medical Report**

Anybody who has ever scalded their mouths with a microwavable chicken potpie would be called a wimp by Tails, and to a lesser extent, even the people who'd accidentally eaten their kabobs while they were still on fire. He became this judgmental, not due to his like of all things spicy, but due to his unfortunate experience with "Dr. Mortician's Premium Quality Extra Hot Hot Sauce" on the twenty-second of August, 2033. Cream had found him on the floor of his quarters with a refrigerator on his leg, also noting the large amount of chewed hot dog and sizzling red patches of goop on the floor. She got Sonic and Knuckles, and they brought him to the infirmary. An abridged version of the patient info report written up by Amy is as follows:

Prower, Miles "Tails"

Age: 8

Sex: Male

Height: 2'4"

Number of recent fatal injuries: Somewhere between fifteen and two hundred

There was a minor dispute over the paper when Sonic claimed that the word "sex" was dirty, although used correctly, but it was agreed by all that Sonic needed to "mellow out" and subject was dropped. Amy had noted that the word gender does not refer to a person, but rather an object (i.e. "la Diet Cork"/"le Diet Cork"), and quickly changed the subject when it became apparent that the rest of the crew were not interested. Except for Cosmo. Her planet had a universal language, and was intrigued by the concept of many in each part of the world. Amy then gave examples of several different languages, but had somehow offended Cosmo at one point and she stormed off. It turns out the phrase, "An elephant stepped on your garbage can" in French sounds exactly like the worst and most offending insult possible on her planet, which can't be translated into any Earth language for lack of effective words. Cream also brought up that nicknames don't go on medical reports, but was shouted out of the room.

Tails would have interjected at a few different points in the conversation had his tongue not been sealed in gauze. The most he could say was "Cuh ah haha hrink uh waher?" in a slow voice, and he was that clear if he was lucky. But the biggest injury was not his mouth; not even close. His left leg had been broken when the minibar fell off the counter and landed on him when he was unconscious. It had fallen because he pulled the door open so hard both times that it had been teetering on the edge and his hand had swung out and knocked it that extra inch (fracturing his right elbow) when he collapsed on the floor.

His forehead also had a huge, swelling lump from its collision with the floor, so large in fact that most doctors would've been convinced at first sight that he had been brain damaged. Amy had only a basic course in first aid at her disposal, but had done rather well at bandaging him up. Tails' only complaint was his tongue, which he had insisted was never supposed to be bandaged. But now he had a small touch screen device to type messages on (and he was a fast typist), which would speak them aloud, in what the pamphlet claimed to be a "natural voice" (which was more in line with the most boring monotone narrators of the day, to say the least).

Tails wasn't use to being this injured. Sure, he got beat up a lot, and after each time had what he thought was a crush on someone he knew was a plant, but this was different. He was essentially hospitalized on a spaceship that might be attacked at any second, and the crew was required to go down to random planets at times. He was the most important because only he knew how use most of the necessary equipment, and now moving his right arm (the dominant one) produced enough pain to run a bug zapper.

Next to his bed was a vending machine (a non-talking one, the request specifically stated), loaded with snacks and soda. Tails had plenty of quarters, but that was causing him a bit of grief. Most of the items on sale were $0.26, requiring a free penny that he didn't have, and to further annoy there were more expensive items at $0.51. Whatever extra change the machine got, it pocketed, and Tails was rather suspicious that his six-digit code for collecting the money didn't work on this machine. Even more so after Knuckles had been the one to make the claim that it was glitched.

"I swear I will get better, and then I will murder him," Tails would think as the fifty-one cent kettle-corn was dispensed.

The hours turned into days, and the days turned into three days. It was on that third day that he noticed a strange humming bleeding through the walls. Tails groaned and put his pillow over his head.

"Can't they keep the noise down?" he mumbled hoarsely (the gauze had been removed during the second day).

The humming grew into a low whine, which grew into a louder, slightly higher whine. It suddenly blasted his ears out as the autodoor speedily retracted and Knuckles bolted into the room.

"Not much time to explain!", Knuckles yelled, and told him the entire situation in two seconds.

Tails didn't understand a word of the speedy ramble, nor could he even _hear _most of it, but for the sake of hurrying he just nodded as Knuckles helped him into the automatic wheelchair, and they raced to Hangar A.

Hangar A was a large pentagonal room. The bottom of the pentagon housed the hangar doors, and the other four sides were lined with small blue shuttles known as Meteors. On the ceiling was a large window through which the crew see down into the bay. As soon as Knuckles and Tails reached the hangar, they entered an elevator and into the preparations room.

"Alright," Sonic began, "given what the scanners have told me, this craft's a battle drone. In a few moments, three of us—and you can bet I'll be one of them—will fly out into low orbit over that planet where the enemy is firing from. From there I say we take it out swiftly and return here for lunch."

"Sounds good to me," said Amy.

Tails raised his left arm up and waved it. "I have a suggestion...CAN YOU TURN THAT DAMN ALARM OFF?" After saying this he went into a coughing fit, slouching over and making horrible sounds. After recovering, he let out three words: "Where's my pod?"

"What the—" Sonic spluttered**. "**You're definitely not flying out there! How are you going to control the throttle?"

"Hey, do you—_**cough**_—want to win or get killed?"

"I think you should be asking yourself the same question."

"Could I break in for a moment?" Knuckles asked.

"Can it, quarter thief!" Tails shouted.

"Oh, come on! Your passwords book is still in your room!"

"Oh, so you stole it, huh?"

"That's a load of sh—" The argument would have continued along those lines for a good three minutes had the ship not been struck at that very moment causing half the crew to fall over.

"Could you two shut up and just get in the Vac-Suits?" Sonic asked.

Knuckles sighed and walked over to the storage container, suiting up along with Tails and Sonic, afterward entering the airlock. From there, they made their way to three separate Meteors.

"Tails, don't get killed," Sonic reminded him. "For my sake?"

Tails gave a not so obvious gesture and sealed the airlock hatch of his Meteor. He stabbed in the password to open the hangar on the number pad and waited for Sonic and Knuckles to do the same. The massive hangar doors began to creak, and there was a deafening roar as air rushed out of the hangar and into space, yanking the Meteor fighters forward a few feet on their landing treads. The doors continued to open, but the creaking was no longer there, now that all air had escaped.

The retros fired up and all three pods lunged into the blackness. This was exactly what the enemy ship had wanted.

Tails was controlling the throttle with his left hand, a task he'd only undertaken once before (and failed, it may be important to note). He took a swoop and fired a few lasers at the ship. They bounced off in all directions, one striking Knuckles' pod and another nearly hitting Sonic's.

"Thanks a lot!" Knuckles yelled over the radio.

"Oh, I am so, so sorry," Tails deadpanned.

The enemy ship arbitrarily slowed, rotating itself to become parallel with the edge of the planet..

"Erm...what's it doing?" Sonic asked nervously.

A huge section the port side of the ship opened, and from within the hull a huge ray of light flashed outwards for a split second.

It didn't seem to have done anything. Tails turned the throttle for a barrel roll. Nothing happened. He then noticed all the gauges had shut down right as the interior lights flicked off, leaving only the dim glow coming from the view screen (and leaving no doubt the flash was a burst of EMP).

Tails looked out the view screen again.

The planet was filling it. And growing.


	3. Musings from the Longest Hour of My Life

**Chapter 3**

**Musings from the Longest Hour of My Life**

Tails, now completely sure the thought would not be presumptuous, cursed himself for ever thinking that Dr. Mortician could cause any pain. He quickly added "Dr. Mortician's Premium Quality Extra Hot Hot Sauce" to his mental list of things that were actually edible, and stared out the view screen at the land he would shortly be face-planting from inside a giant, flaming chunk of metal.

The shock of the situation had initially mortified him, but he eventually came to realize that the planet was going to continue getting closer for more than an hour with only negligible effects on the G-force he felt. Once he entered a dense enough portion of the atmosphere, his acceleration would render the pod a giant flaming ball of death, something not notable for its comforting characteristics.

"Damn," Tails quietly muttered, remembering he'd never eaten that bag of Gummy Worms he purchased the previous day. He imagined toying with the rainbow, corn-derivative candy, hoping that God would take pity and materialize the bag in his pod. Needless to say, nothing happened.

That one girl he had briefly spoken with at the market, that had been the only intelligent conversation the fox had experienced in weeks. For the first time in eons, he had been able to speak freely on mundane topics without having to worry about being blown up or asphyxiated. The two had bantered on and on about the weather, a show both had seen on TV the previous night (they had even hated it for the same reasons) and had even swapped email addresses and phone numbers by the end. Unfortunately, due to the nature of his current work, Tails neither had the time nor patience to write an email or even talk on the phone. The constant warning lights, the predictable break-down of nearly every component on the ship at regular intervals, all of it contributed to his growing belief that the universe, every last atom of it, was a complete bastard.

Tails had never been exactly a religious person, but he reasoned that if there was no God, he might as well just kill himself and be done with it, since the entire whole of existence was obviously out to get him anyway. But, given that he was never quite in the mood for suicide, he decided to place faith in an all-powerful deity to make his hell-storm of a life worth it in the end. But, in the present, noting again that his bag of gummies had not yet appeared from thin air to allow him to gorge his about-to-be-exploded taste buds on, he decided that God, despite not being part of that jackass known as the universe, wasn't exactly fond of him. And, he knew that honestly, there wasn't much reason for anyone to be.

The constant stress of having to be on alert at all times had rendered him less social than a rabid chupacabra. Lashing out at various people who wandered in his way was a duty – if he didn't do it, those smarmy jerkholes would think that talking to him was an acceptable behavior. As if they didn't have enough time to page him, or at least communicate in some way less intrusive than blasting him with speech! Those inconsiderate jackasses!

Tails steadied himself.

_No need to get angry, I'll never have to deal with them again, _he told himself. _It's alright to resent them. In fact, if it'll make you feel better, flip those a-holes the bird._

Tails turned around, facing the back end of the pod, and extended his middle finger towards the general direction of the Blue Typhoon. He tried to imagine the most witty comment he could possibly make at the group on board, but quickly gave up and settled for a more conventional f-bomb-based tirade aimed at no one in particular. Falling silent, he stared at the wall.

He remembered the day he designed that wall; it was a Tuesday, and some sports team had just won – he couldn't remember which one or even which sport, but he knew someone had won the game the others were watching on TV that day, and it was a very memorable event. Or was it? He thought about it, soon realizing that it was in fact an every day occurrence, and that the wall he was staring at played no part in its events. That bloody wall had deceived him! That lousy, inanimate metal grating had out-smarted him! Why on Earth was that wall-

Tails steadied himself again. _It's just a wall, idiot. It's a freakin' wall!_ _It did nothing. It couldn't do anything! Now where the hell are my gummies?_

He resented it. He resented the entire whole of existence. Why even bother being born if you're going to get stuck in a situation like this? What possible purpose could your existence have if this was its final outcome?

Tails leaned back in his chair, and awaited the inevitable.


End file.
